Story: The House of Hell

 The House of Hell

Remember me, James? Well, I'm here with a new story about Crasson and me. Continue reading if you want to hear more.

Yesterday, when I went to see my friend Crasson, he wasn't there. I waited for about a whole hour before he came back. But, he barely looked like himself! He was wearing a disguise. He wore a black coat and a green hat, black, baggy trousers, glasses, muddy boots and ripped gloves.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Ah, there you are James," Crasson replied as he tore off his disguise. "Oh," I replied. "Hello, Crasson."

"Have you been thinking 'where was I?'" he asked.

"Oh, yes."

"Well," said he, "Someone requested that I come to St Daniel's Park in a disguise so we could talk."

"What were you talking about?" I asked.

"You can probably guess that he had a story for me. The story was that the man's house was locked!"

"I'm in the dark."

"A couple days ago, this man (Mr. Kitterden was his name) had gone out to buy some more tabacco, but when he returned, the doors of his house were locked! And when he patted his pockets for the keys, they weren't there!"

"Why, this is very strange!" I said.

"Quite!" Crasson replied. "Now, he said that when he arrived, he saw a man run away from the house, though he couldn't see any details except that it was a black person.

"And he also found a piece of paper laying on the ground in front of the door."

He put some ripped paper onto the table:

Have you wondered who has closed your door?

Have you wondered if there is blood on floor?

Maybe it was your old friend,

Whom you forgot to mend.

Maybe it was your rival,

Whom thought that it was his survival.

Or maybe it was your parents,

Whom did it for their dead grandparents.

"This makes no sense," I said

"Yes, this is peculiar," Crasson said. "Very peculiar,"

"What do you think of it?" I asked.

"Hmm... " he said. "Do you see that word crossed out?"

"Yes. What does it say?"

"Grandparents."

"But why would parents lock up their own son's house up for their grandparents? None of this makes sense at all!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, yes, but it's not over!" Crasson interjected. "This is a very odd way to write!"

"What do you mean?"

"Only few people in this area write like this!" he said excitedly. "James, hand me the London encyclopedia!"

"Yes, of course!" said I as I gave him the encyclopedia.

"Da da da... aha!" he shouted. "Here is our street!

"Hmm... someone named Harold- wait, what? It doesn't show his last name or anything except his first name and that he writes the same way as the paper shows!"

"Oh, no!" I cried.

But Crasson just laughed. "Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I'm just kidding around with you, James! Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" 

"Phew!" I said. "So, then, what's the information?"

"Well, you'll see!" then beckoned me to the door.

* * *

As me, Crasson and Mr. Kitterden walked toward a house, I checked my watch. It was 3:56 PM, and I was supposed to go at a diner with my wife at 4:10, so I was kind of in a hurry to get this done.

Crasson knocked on the door twice, and out appeared a short, black man with dull, purple hair.

"Hello, Harold Reppili," Crasson said. "I think you know what you done."

"Oh, it seems to me that you are trying to catch me, am I right?" he replied.

"Yes. We are here to place you into the police station." Crasson said.

Harold smiled. He turned to jump out a window, but he backed away, and I saw the reason he did that was because there were policemen guarding that window. He turned to leap out of another one, but he backed away again because there was more policemen at that window too.

"It's no use, Harold," Crasson said. "Police have cornered ever exit. You cannot escape."

Harold frowned, then put his hands in front of him. He was handcuffed and put in the police car.

"That," Crasson said, "was a easy mystery, thanks to the encyclopedia,"

The End

Story: The Thief of Jealousy

The Thief of Jealousy

I'm James. I work for a newspaper called The Guzzle, I’m a very rich person, and I’m an assistant for an important detective named Crasson. Crasson is a brilliant and amazing man. He solves his cases by putting pressure on people. For example, if a suspected murderer lied to him, then Crasson would just ask him question after question until he spilled the beans. But, if you want to know a real case, then continue reading.

One day recently I called upon Crasson, but he was in deep conversation with an older, orange-haired gentleman. Seeing this, I turned to leave, but Crasson got up and closed the door before I could leave.

"Ah, James. You couldn't have come at a better time," said he.

"I thought you were talking to him, though," I said.

"I was."

"So I'll just go into the next room and wait."

"I think not!"

"Why not?"

"Because," Crasson said. "I want you to stay here and help me solve this case."

"What case?" I asked.

"Someone stole from my old mentor!" Crasson pointed to the elderly gentleman. "Mr. Willowpaint, meet Mr. James." I bowed to him.

"Very nice to meet you!" he said.

"Yes! Nice to meet you, too!" I replied.

"Please, Sir, retell your story to my friend James," said Crasson.

"Gladly!" the old man said. "A few days ago, a stranger delivered to me a parcel. As he handed it to me, he told me that I needed to open it at once. I did, but all that was inside was a piece of cloth. I went back to the door to tell him that I didn't need it, but he was gone."

"Why, how unusual!" I said. "Quite!" he replied. "But wait! A couple of days after that, I discovered something on the cloth!" Mr. Willowpaint slapped down a piece of cloth on the table. I looked at it, and at first it just looked like a regular piece of cloth, but then, after a few moments, I realized there were faint words written in red ink embedded into the cloth. It said:

Meet me at Saint Daniel's Park next Monday at 12:35 AM

"Why, this is just getting more and more peculiar!" Crasson said after a moment.

"I've racked my brain, but I don't know who this could be or why they want to meet me at midnight. I just moved into this home last weekend!" He smiled at Crasson. "Aside from you, my old pupil, I don't have any friends or rivals yet... at least that I know of. And where even is St Daniel's Park?"

"It's not too far from your new home, actually," answered Crasson.

"Very good, but there's more," Willowpaint interjected. "Two days after I received the cloth, I was robbed! What do you think of that, Mr. Crasson?"

"I think someone doesn't want you to make your appointment," he replied.

"But why?" Mr. Willowpaint asked. "Why?"

"That," Crasson said. "Will remain a mystery for now. Anything else that may have forgotten to tell us?"

"That's all I know," he said.

"Thank you very much," Crasson said as he gave a shallow bow to his old friend.

"Crasson, I fear for my own safety," he said. "Could you go to the park on my behalf?"

"Perhaps," Crasson said. "Perhaps."

* * *

As I returned to see Crasson the next morning, he was still asleep in his bed. I woke him up with a loud knock on the door.

"Wha- oh, hello Mr. James," he mumbled as he opened the door a few moments later.

"Have you solved the case?" I said teasingly.

"Not yet, but I have a few suspects," he replied.

"And who are they?"

"Well, last night, I kept watch outside Mr. Willowpaint's home. I noticed another fellow sneaking about. I confronted him, and found out that his name was George Filis. I questioned him, and he claimed to be homeless. Apparently, he was trying to rest near the heating vents of the home. He did look quite ragged, so his story seemed realistic."

"Interesting," I said. "But likely a dead end."

"Likely. I have another suspect, a man who had followed me for a while after Mr. Willowpaint came to see me. I wasn't able to confront him, but it was certainly suspicious."

"Hmm... Anyone else?" I asked.

"Not yet, but I think I may have cracked this one already," Crasson replied. "Meet me tonight, and I will share the details.

"Then you may expect me tonight," I said, and turned to leave.

* * *

I walked into the house.

There sat Crasson, Mr. Willowpaint, and someone I'd never seen before... a police officer.

"Ah, there you are, James," Crasson said. "Can you guess who the thief was?"

"That police officer?" I said, puzzled.

"No!" Crasson laughed heartily. "It was Mr. Willowpaint!"

"What? How?"

"You see," he said. "I thought of just how implausible the whole story seemed, and thought... no one stole from him! It was merely a pretense to have me show up at St Daniel's Park in the middle of the night."

"I don't understand," I said.

"The rag, for example. It wasn't delivered at all! He just wrote the message himself. Not in ink, but blood."

"Good heavens, why? And how did you know this?" I asked.

"Well, I sniffed at the 'ink' and noticed that it smelled like dried blood." Crasson narrowed his eyes. "I remember a case I worked on years ago, where a criminal wrote notes in blood. A case that I worked on with my dear old friend, Mr. Willowpaint! It seems he employed the tactic to throw me off his scent."

I looked at Crasson and then Willowpaint, mouth agape.

"And his asking me to go to the park in his stead?" Crasson continued. "He was planning to murder me when I arrived."

"But why? Why would your old mentor do that?"

"Because Crasson stole the fame I was due!" Willowpaint yelled as he stood. "I taught him everything he knows, it should have been me that was famous!"

"My goodness!" I exclaimed.

The policeman stepped up and placed handcuffs on Willowpaint.

"NOOOOO! I will have what is rightfully mine! This isn't over!" he screamed, but soon he was already in the car, on his way to the police station.

Shortly thereafter, I sat in the lounge with Crasson as he poured us both drinks. "That," he said. "Was a very, very odd case."

The End